


Wandmaker: Part 1

by Liquifator



Series: Wandmaker [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 17:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14406987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquifator/pseuds/Liquifator
Summary: Josh is an American wizard from a half-blood family. As a present-day adult, his life is interrupted by a magical criminal investigation with kidnappings and murder. As a child, Josh receives a letter from Wambleeska, an American wizarding school, and aspires to become a Wandmaker.





	Wandmaker: Part 1

Present Day 

An unexpected knock on the door after eight at night does not usually mean good news.   
The wind howled outside, and winter winds battered against the shuttered windows of my study. During the previous hour, I had remained warm and toasty in the confines of my office, shutting the frigid winter night firmly outside. Warmth and light poured over the mess of scrolls and parchment on my desk and over my tired face. I squinted at the list I had been scrawling on the paper before me: one phrase, ten words long, that was repeated over and over about fifteen times. Standing less than a foot from my forehead was a bowtruckle named Etik, my longtime companion, and he was holding a glass plate of water firmly over my work in his strong, sharp, twig-like arms. The water was under a stretching enchantment, so the plate acted as a magnifying glass. With another touch of my wand I added a hovering charm to the plate, so Etik could let go. Satiated, I shifted my attention to a large textbook far to my right and began flipping rapidly through it. “Espial…” I muttered as my fingers danced around the pages. “Espionage… from espier… espiaille, in the French…” Grabbing my pen, I nudged the water plate a little to the side – it drifted obediently – and jotted down a couple notes.   
That’s when I had heard the knock at the door.   
My attention was startled rudely from the spell-in-progress and I looked nervously around my study for a moment as Etik hopped off the desk and ran toward the front entrance. I kept the room fairly spacious so my few prized pieces of “furniture” could bask in their own airy splendor. The main piece was my large aquarium tank which held several different aquatic beasts, including families of murtlap and plimpies—the former was valuable for my business, but both were capable of interacting with my magic. The table on which it stood was wide and held many fragments of soon-to-be-wands, from chunks of wood to scales, hairs, and whiskers of variety—many owners of which snoozed or played around me right now. Behind was my grand window to the blizzard outside, closed and curtain drawn for sake of night. On either side were my fire and iceplaces. Left and obvious, the fireplace was purring with a gentle glow and home to my fire salamanders. On the right was its cousin of my own invention: an iceplace. The same concept, it held a flurry of snow and ice, swirled like a gentle beach tide, fed on rock (preferably frozen), glowed a soft blue, and was a happy home to my frost salamanders. It was slowly becoming a commercial success among wizards in the Eastern desert countries with unforgiving summers.   
I slowly began walking around my desk toward the exit of my study, just as one of my golden snidgets swooped whimsically past, making a loop around the brass perch I had set up for what I thought would be my lifelong phoenix companion. Alas, after several days of respite in my home, the powerful, majestic creature took her departure and has not returned. Walking out the door, I crested the stairway in time to see Appa – my griffin – and Momo – my kneazle – trotting toward the entrance ahead of me. Etik had swung himself atop Momo’s back, easily the gentler and more docile of the two, as I peered between the curtains of my front door. Behind me, I heard my wife, Sarah, walking softly up. “Josh?” She asked. “Are you expecting someone?”   
I shook my head in answer just as my eyes laid upon two warmly familiar faces, and my heart soared with curious happiness. “It’s the Professor and Pofus!” I exclaimed to her, to which her face reflected a milder version of my own excitement.   
I opened the door and bade them quickly inside. “Come in, Professor Ecclesiastes, come in! And you too, Pofus, you must be frostbitten!” Sarah held Appa back from leaping at them and soothed the griffin’s wings from unfolding.   
“Thank you, Josh, thank you,” Professor Ecclesiastes responded tiredly but gratefully as he began removing his winter cloak, which I took from him as Sarah attended to Pofus. “I’m so sorry about this hour of visit. It wasn’t intentional, but it’s urgent that you find out.”   
“Urgent?” I asked, throwing Sarah a worriedly look that she reciprocated, this time fully.   
“Yes. You see—have you heard of the recent kidnappings?” the Professor asked exasperatedly.   
“I have…” I replied slowly.   
“One of their bodies has turned up with very curious wounds – the Congress is investigating them as we speak – and another person has been kidnapped, Josh. It’s—”   
“Mr. Evercare!” Pofus wailed, speaking for the first time so far. “Mr. Evercare’s been kidnapped!” 

 

~~~

 

Wambleeska Year 1   
Even though I’m the half-blood son of a No-Maj and witch, my parents knew I was a wizard before I received my letter to Wambleeska: I had a very strong affinity to magic, especially in manipulating my environment. With my older sister being a Squib, my family couldn’t have been more divided between worlds and all four of us (my father after meeting my mother, of course) gained extensive knowledge of both worlds during our lives together as a family.   
The arrival of my letter from Wambleeska (Sioux, White Eagle) was a very bittersweet day for my family. It had come in with the regular Tuesday morning mail and my father’s eyes lit up as if he’d won the lottery. My mother had been going through her personal mail: flicking through levitating parchments with her wand while her owl sat perched a few feet from her chair, and iPad with an open Hotmail account sat in her lap, waiting for its turn for her to peruse her No-Maj friends’ messages and business reminders. My sister had just graduated from eighth grade the previous school semester; her 15 and me about to be 11. She was sitting at the dining table, listening to music on her phone, working on some homework from her summer school class that she was taking to get a little ahead in order to study abroad soon. I was sitting on the floor, focusing on a glass of water on the coffee table, trying to persuade it to ripple or change forms. My parents had both encouraged this; I had gained a certain level of control over the mysterious circumstances that had surrounded me my whole life. After my mom had successfully taught me to stop them, she proudly proceeded to help me create those of my choice—under careful control, of course. Therefore, when my father called my name in snappy excitement from five feet away, the startle caused me to knock my glass over. I was almost frustrated at the mess it made when I realized with glee that the water had frozen, and therefore not spilled.   
“Yeah, dad?” I asked, getting up and replacing the water on the table. I tried to will it to liquefy, but noticed it didn’t respond as I turned my attention away. “Take a look at this, and show your mother!”   
I knew what it was before I even saw the letter. There’s nothing else my dad would be this excited about. But the confirmation was still awing: the official Wambleeska seal, the Headmistress’s name and title at the top, my name printed in beautiful old English script beneath, and then the message I had to consciously slow my brain down to read: “…pleased to inform… enclosed a list… we await your owl…” with the Deputy Headmaster’s name at the bottom like a cherry on dessert. “Wambleeska!” I exclaimed, looking up to my dad, who bore an exaggerated smile.   
“Are you excited?” He asked.   
“No, this is probably one of the more boring moments of my summer,” I told him sarcastically. “I’d rather be over there with Roxanne.” I nodded over to my sister who was poring over a textbook.   
My mom had already rolled up the parchment she had been reading and, with a wave of her wand, had the letters stack themselves neatly on the floor next to her as she received the invitation from me and looked at it for herself.   
“Wambleeska, huh?” Roxanne called over from her place at the dining table. “That’s pretty exciting! Are you ready to switch over your education?”   
“I think I am,” I said confidently. “I really like what I’ve seen of magic and can’t wait to learn more.   
Would you learn magic if you had the choice?”   
“You know, I don’t know if I would,” she said. “Magic is cool and convenient and all, but I prefer more hands-on stuff. Not having magic helps you relate to more people and you don’t always have to depend on a wand. Plus I want to be a real-life nurse, and you don’t need magic for that!”   
“I bet there are all sorts of healing spells!” I exclaimed.   
“And I bet none of them can match a real doctor with years of experience,” she smiled. “Anyway, are you sad to move away?”   
“It’ll be tough, leaving my old friends behind. And all of the No-Maj world, huh?” I asked, turning to my mom.   
“That’s right,” she said, having just finished reading the invitation. “Wambleeska is completely magical. There’s nothing No-Maj there, certainly no technology, and none of the purebloods will know anything about the No-Maj world! I certainly didn’t before meeting your dad. Well, besides what I learned in No-Maj Studies, of course.”   
“And now we live mostly in the No-Maj world, except on holidays,” I finished, smiling at what I reflected on as our good fortune.   
“Yep, with the help of a few hiding spells and charms so our neighbors can’t see my magic or yours. So you should perform perfectly well the other way around, son! I’m sure you’ll fit in great with your peers at Wambleeska. And you’ll be able to relate with people of every family!”   
And so it was with excitement and anxiety that my family took me, the following week, to Cyk Lake Market. After purchasing my robes, cauldron, first year’s potion ingredients, and a snowy owl that had taken to me uncannily well, we encountered our first oddity of the school year at the wandmaker’s shop. The owner was an older man who looked to be of Native American ancestry. He had thick gray hair that reached his chin on all sides and vaguely resembled a bomber hat. His suit was simple, gray like his hair, and patterned with thin white vertical stripes. After a solid half hour of trying different wands, the shopkeeper was still unsatisfied and my dad and sister had left to a café down the street. Books had been strewn everywhere, a window and multiple lightbulbs broken, winds had stirred a thick layer of papers on the ground, and several odd disembodied voices had even been heard. Mr. Evercare, as I had come to learn the shopkeeper’s name through our difficulties, had disheveled several tall and, by the looks of them, carefully maintained stacks of wand boxes to the point that I felt pretty bad. The only consolation of the situation was that he stopped every ten minutes to help another customer, and even then there grew a line of two or three between each interval. A full hour after I’d come in, I was getting very worried. “This is incredibly rare, Mrs. Hatchlet,” Mr. Evercare was telling my mother. “Wands usually aren’t this particular. Although, you will be pleased to know that I don’t sense that the wands are being picky—it’s not that they don’t want your son,” he said, seeming to choose his words carefully. “It seems to me that they, if you’ll understand, don’t feel worthy.”   
“What do you mean by that?” My mom asked.   
“The wands choose whichever witch or wizard they are most compatible with; whichever is most suited to their abilities. The fact that the wands are being so selective means that very few will be particularly suited to channel his unique gifts. May I ask the blood of your family?”   
“Why?” She asked, slightly defensively. “Would that help you find him a wand?”   
“Possibly,” he said, taking no offense to her reaction. “If you are pureblood with a notable ancestry, it could account for the wands’ particularity. For example, I’d expect a direct ancestor of Ocean to have enjoyed being the choice of the twenty-eighth wand I offered your son; being cherry and phoenix feather… eight and a half inches… I don’t suppose you’re a pureblood direct ancestor of Ocean?”   
“No,” my mom laughed. “Not that we know of. He’s half-blood; his father’s a No-Maj, and I’m not aware of any ancestry my parents had. I was an Ether, myself.”   
“Ah, pureblood yourself, then? May I see your own wand?” My mother nodded and drew her wand from her purse. Mr. Evercare accepted and examined it. “Ah, almond and phoenix feather. Seven inches exactly. Beautiful… very rigid, yet rugged and full of texture. You have a very special wand there, ma’am, as I’m sure your son’s will be.” He handed it back. “But come this way, I think I have an idea…”   
And Mr. Evercare led my mother and me to a different corner of the shop. As we walked away, he waved his wand dismissively behind us, and I slowed my pace to watch with wonder as the room began cleaning itself – everything from boxes restacking and windows repairing. “Um, Mr. Hatchlet…” Mr. Evercare had noticed my pace. “You’ll be seeing that plenty in the years ahead, I assure you.” He smiled, admiring my curiosity, and turned to my mother. “Wizarding families tend to take magic for granted. It’s refreshing for the small things to be appreciated.”   
While my mom took the moment of walking to text my father our progress, Mr. Evercare led us through a short corridor to an entirely different room, lit by torches on all four walls. This room, he explained, was very unique in one aspect: its wands were infused with different hard elements like metal, bone, or mineral compounds. I looked around it with awe, trying to find differences among the boxes, wondering why he had led us here and what infused elements meant. I voiced these questions and Mr. Evercare gave me a look of approval before explaining briefly that it made the wands have unique properties that might correspond with my own magic differently. Then he removed a box from the middle of a shelf and handed me the wand within. I gave it a wave. My mother gave a start: Fire blossomed to life in the air directly around me, blazed for mere seconds, and then faded away just as quickly. When it cleared, she was at my side, her hands on my arms. “Josh!” She exclaimed, examining my face for burns. “Are you—?”   
I looked up from my mom to Mr. Evercare, who was smiling expectantly. “He is unharmed,” he said reassuringly, and my mom slowly backed away as she realized I was, in fact, more than fine. “Unfortunately, that is still incorrect. But we are much closer, among these.”   
He stood in front of me with another, but before handing it over, he looked to my mom. “The next display may be just as frightening, Mrs. Hatchlet. But I assure you that your son will come to no harm. If you wish, I can request qualified healers from the Congress come before we continue.”   
My mom took a deep breath and stepped back slightly. “No, I’m sorry. A mother just gets worried! But please, continue.”   
Mr. Evercare smiled sympathetically. “I would be more worried had you not reacted.” He then handed me the other, and I waved it. A high-pitched rumble came from the exterior wall and all of a sudden the window glass fractured into oblivion, shaving itself into crystalline sand and pouring toward me through the air as if gravity had shifted. I noticed my mother was holding her hands to her chest in worry. The mass of sand reached me and immediately took a circular, swirling fashion, as if trapped in a tornado with very strict boundaries. I lowered the wand in attempt to slow or cease the display, and was pleased to find this effective—but it immediately shot outward like an explosion, forgetting its boundaries and stamping every surface with miniscule grains. “My apologies,” the wandmaker said softly, waving his wand at my mom and himself so the sand removed itself cleanly from their bodies. “You certainly seem to have an affinity for the elemental,” he said to me, perusing back through the hundreds of boxes. “But does an element have an affinity for you?” He stopped at one more and handed the contents to me. I waved the wand. Thick frost spread from my feet for two feet before building itself vertically in beautiful crystal forms, as if spreading up a glass surface. Within seconds a cylinder of oriental-accented patterns in ice had formed around my body, and when the form had reached the top of my head height, it also disintegrated into frosty sand: except this transformation was more peaceful, serene, an accepted change instead of a violent fracture like the window had experienced. Then all at once, the new snow vanished into thin air. Mr. Evercare was beaming. “It seems we’ve found our winner. Mr. Hatchlet, you are now the new—and proud, I hope—user and soon-to-be-owner of the gray mangrove and phoenix feather wand, infused with rare bone of yeti.” I stared down at the wand. Before I had simply accepted it as yet another of dozens that I had tried; now I mentally allowed myself to feel it. A surge of cold, familiar power flowed its way up my arm and washed over my body like an ocean tide, like new falling snow. It was one of the best feelings I’d had to date.   
My sister and dad were very excited to see me at the café after mom had bought the wand. She and I took turns explaining the bizarre events and the reward that I considered well worth the wait. My mom was also extraordinarily proud; she had repeated at least five times since discovering the wand that it was of phoenix feather core, just like hers. 

And so it was early morning between four and six weeks later that my family took me to the Ann Arbor Amtrak and my mom led us to the ticketing windows. She told us there was an unmanned ticketing window between the ninth and tenth ones in the row, but only magical people could see it. Therefore I bid a heartfelt farewell to my dad and sister, and my mom helped me take my luggage just past the ninth window. Sure enough, expanding as if folding outward mechanically from the wall, another ticketing window appeared in the division with a “Please See Next Window” sign on the counter and a brass “9 2/3” label above. Following my mom’s directions, I walked toward the window purposefully and was shocked when sunlight shone in my eyes and a cool breeze rustled my hair: I had appeared outside on a 1950s-styled station platform, bustling with witches and wizards of all ages, parents and students alike. My mom appeared within seconds, towing a couple of my cases behind her. Then, ten minutes later, we had said our own farewell and I was on the train as it pulled out.   
I shared the train car with two others: a guy around my age with red curly hair and freckles, and an older Hispanic-looking lady with long pigtails. I introduced myself to the guy: his name was Kent Lofts and he was also No-Maj-born, which gave us something to talk about. The lady seemed very involved in the book she was reading and fairly smugly uninterested in us kids, so neither of us bothered her, though Kent kept glancing at her as if he wanted to. The ride to Wambleeska took two full days: by the evening of the first the Hispanic lady left our car, and train staff came in to magically expand our chairs into bunk-beds. Because of space, we were moved to another car where two other boys our age had tucked themselves in already. I got in quietly but Kent didn’t want to stop talking; luckily the boy lower and opposite him kept him satisfied with occasional responses. By evening of the following day, we arrived at a small wooden station with a magnificent view of what looked like a small, rugged mountain in the distance, whose slopes and peaks were filled with twinkling lights. Fifteen minutes found me rather stunned and riding with about five others in a wagon pulled on each side by what the school’s Head of Security apparently called Piasa. These were serpentine creatures with talons, huge racks of antlers, partially-unfolded bat-like wings that appeared to triple their height, and although I only got a glimpse of it, faces that looked frighteningly like they used to belong to sad, elderly humans. As they made decent speed upon their muscular limbs and fierce talons, their wings beat lightly, producing a kind of gliding, bouncing that made the hills feel more like swelling waves.   
My eyes had not been wrong: we were soon at the entrance of what was, in fact, a very large, rugged mountain. Massive wooden doors opened to reveal a huge tunnel hollowed into the stone of the mountain, passing on into yawning darkness dimly lit by dozens of greenish-red flames on the walls that lacked torches. I found Kent again, and we followed the rest of the first-years through a series of wide tunnels cut into the mountain all the way up to its peak. This is how I realized it was a much shorter and wider mountain than usual; more like a plateau. If the entire bottom of the school was a system of caves, the Great Hall was the center, and by far largest, chamber. The corridor opened to the back of the Hall, from which I could see four very long tables full of upperclassmen that stretched in parallel to the front, where the professors already sat. As us freshmen made our way forward through the center, I looked back to take in the view and noticed that each table had its own unique, magnificently detailed, and strangely styled tapestry hanging above it on the back wall like a background. Above the leftmost table was a multicolored eagle depicted on a background of white. The next table over had a whale and blue background, then a buffalo on green, and lastly a sun on yellow.   
The Deputy Headmaster then began calling people up from the line one by one to be sorted into the tables. I hoped to be placed into Ether, like my mom, but when my turn came, the Sorting Hat’s internal conversation led it to one called Sky instead. This didn’t particularly surprise me; although I knew little of what these meant, I was very fond of the sky itself. But then the Hat shouted “Soaring Eagle!” to the chamber, and for a whole moment I was utterly confused as to what that meant.   
“Welcome,” the Deputy Headmaster said to me. He was a short blonde man with light brown eyes and experience-aged face. He took the time-wrinkled hat gently from my head and smiled so genuinely I felt like I was the only student there. Then he took his wand, which I noticed was lightly dotted along its length with opulent white, and tapped it lightly against the badge in his other hand. It was as if it had been caked with dust and was just air-blown: a small ripple of magic pulsed over the badge’s surface and washed it of color, leaving only white and red. But that’s not what my jaw dropped at: in the same instant, the snow-white eagle on the badge burst into life, jumping off its perch and flying energetically through a crimson sky that I was actually surprised it didn’t vanish off the edge of. “It’s… soaring?” I asked, taking the badge and looking up at the man.   
He looked affectionately amused. “And your challenge is to discover where. I found where mine was stampeding to,” he winked, indicating his own badge that depicted an urgently-moving ruby buffalo running over hills of vibrantly emerald green. “I think wizards of our Trait always do, in the end.” I sat beneath the Eagle tapestry and was further delighted when Kent’s name was called to Eagle as well, even though his apparently preferred to glide.   
It was then that the Headmistress made her way to the front podium and motioned for the students to hush as they ate their dinner. “Long ago,” she began with a deep breath, “the leading Shamans of the Great Plains organized themselves into sects separate from that of the No-Maj world, each according to the natural region they identified with most. The Sky Sect, dreamers who longed to drift with the clouds and felt at home in the highest altitudes, identified themselves by the Eagle. The Ocean Sect, changers whose deep intellect mirrored the water they so loved, felt kinship with the Whale. The Earth Sect, whose rationale was strong and rooted, were symbolized by the Buffalo. And finally, the Ether Sect, a mysterious group with an affinity for the unseen, looked beyond to the Sun for their icon. As time went on, these harmonious Sects realized that despite loyalty to their own, the vast majority longed to experience other Sects with which they felt significant commonality. Soon Ether proposed a solution that, despite reflecting their own Sect in mystery, proved effective. This solution was referred to as Traits: one of three traits that each individual feels more than the other, all of which transcend the Sects in equal potency. It’s a trait of personality, one that cannot be described or explained, but that unifies the Sects deeper than the ocean, stronger than the earth, higher than the sky, and with more mystery than the ether from which it came. It’s a trait which compels the Eagle to Soar, the Whale to Dive, the Buffalo to Stampede, and the Sun to bring its Solstice. Or if the Eagle is driven to Laugh, it could likely find companion among Singing Whales, Dancing Buffalo, and Twilight Suns. Or perhaps if the Eagle Glides, it may find stronger friends among Breaching Whales, Grazing Buffalo, and Dusk Suns. It goes without saying that I expect each of you to find lifelong friends among individuals of any Sect or Trait... but we have found that those of companion interests or learning styles can frequently be found among their own.”   
Around an hour found Kent and I following our Sect Prefect, Gordon Brown, up Wambleeska’s second highest tower. Though the stairway was tight and steep, he and I both enjoyed the journey quite thoroughly and nearly tripped over each other in our race to reach the top. To our disappointment, it did not turn out to be the Eagle Sect Commons… but – I looked around to take in a statue, multiple desks with artifacts, and several historical tapestries in this circular, domed room – “A museum?”   
“We aren’t going to sleep here, are we?” A voice asked.   
“Maybe the first years can!”   
“Or the Gliders!” This last comment was met with some internal laughter among the group.   
“This is Wambleeska’s tribute to one of the most famous Shamans of the Sky Sect, Phealimus Edgecomb. He was a fantastic warrior and musician, known most for his use of the hammer, pretty unorthodox among our Sect.” Gordon turned to a stained-glass window to the group’s right, which I suddenly realized depicted a man—who I now assumed was this Phealimus guy. He wore a long, green winter tunic with detailed and colorful embroidering, held a staff in his right hand with the aforementioned hammer end, and sported an elaborate headpiece vaguely resembling the stereotypical Indian feather headdress. A large squirrel also sat perched on his arm. “Good evening, Mr. Edgecomb.”   
To my astonishment, the figure in stained glass shifted in place and looked down upon the Prefect. “You introduce me yet neglect to mention Hearthwater?”   
Gordon rolled his eyes. “Really exciting battle at a creek,” he said monotonously. “Cold weather. Killed lots of bad people with his hammer and magic.”   
Surprisingly, Edgecomb smiled wide as if this were the summary he had hoped. “The roaring river was frozen over but you could still hear its turbulence beneath the ice! I smashed a hole in the bank with my hammer, then stunned five people with one spell and threw them in!” The bored silence of the group did not stunt the beam in his glassy face. Finally, after a moment of basking in his own story, the warrior looked back down at Gordon. “Tell me, boy, Why do you seek the Sky?”   
“I dream to glide among the Eagles on this night,” Gordon replied, and Edgecomb lifted his hammer-staff, bowing his head lightly. The window swung open and a chilly breeze swept around the room, fluttering some of the looser tapestries. “That’s not a set phrase,” the Prefect addressed the group as he stepped up to the sill of the now-open window. “And I don’t often hear that question, though I have before. Edgecomb analyzes your intention based on your answer and opens based on that. Some Skies haven’t succeeded on occasion… but you’ll get there if you keep trying.   
“Now we cross the bridge to the Commons. The brick has been imbued with an invisibility enchantment, so no one can find it from the outside. Who wants to go first?”   
Kent immediately started forward, pushing his way through the group, and I followed on his heels. We stepped up to the ledge, and Kent barely tapped the invisible stone with his foot in confirmation before leaping his whole body out there, to Gordon’s amazement. I needed to feel the solidity with my whole foot, but I wasn’t far behind, watching the school grounds pass by dozens of feet below me. The door on the far tower was simple and wooden, and Gordon just tugged on its rustic metal handle. The three of us entered into a huge spherical room unlike anything I’d ever seen before. The stone, though obviously present, was painted entirely in reflection of the atmospheric conditions outside. I could see the clouds all around at eye level, a bird flying far in the distance—in real time; it soon departed from view—and the sun slowly disappearing beneath the horizon. The circumference of the sphere, all the way around, was filled with organized tables and chairs of different variety. I could even look up and see the furniture resting on the ceiling above my head. We waited a short few minutes for the remainder of the Sect to enter the room and, as I stepped away from the entrance to make more room, I realize I did not feel the effects of gravity: I could make my way “up” the side of the sphere without stumbling.   
“Welcome to Sky!” Gordon exclaimed. “As several of you may have noticed, the painting around the commons is bewitched to reflect the outside conditions of the sky in real time. You can see the sun, clouds, birds, and even storms. You all need to come out here during lightning storms or blizzards... it can be pretty amazing. Nice to study to, if you’re not distracted.   
“You’ll notice the dormitories divided by Trait with entrances above us.” I looked up on that note and saw three circular wooden doors above my head, arranged triangularly like the finger slots on a bowling ball. They were all marked clearly with Eagles exhibiting the titular Traits. “If you have any questions, I welcome you to ask. I’ll be waiting out here for that reason for a while or until everyone leaves. And with that, I bid you all goodnight!”   
Kent and I exchanged extremely excited expressions. The whole Common room was amazing and I absolutely loved the sensation of being suspended in the air through all this. I had a feeling the excitement wouldn’t dissipate over my year at the school, and loved that I already had a friend. It was then with regret that he and I bid our farewells at the Trait entrances. When I made it to my room, only one other person had beat me: a dark-skinned boy whose name I learned was Adam. We were both shy at first, but as we started taking out some of our bedroom décor, I recognized some wizarding story heroes among his articles that my mom had introduced me to, and I was shocked that he recognized some of my favorite cartoon heroes from No-Maj TV. This sparking instant conversation, I learned that although his family was almost entirely pureblood, his uncle was a Squib—non magic, like my father—and Adam had happily shared in the No-Maj world with him. We bonded instantly over this, sharing our favorite stories and No-Maj media and opinions of all of them. Eventually our other two dorm-mates appeared and we got along fine with them, but I felt a fondness toward Adam already, even greater than I had come to feel for Kent.   
I was thrilled to find Adam and I had the same schedule. Flying class was first, held at the summit of the mountain in a grassy opening surrounded by stone buildings on all sides; it came naturally to both Adam and I and we loved it; I managed to reach a higher altitude than him, he managed to speed faster through the air. History of Magic was next, a starkly contrasting calm atmosphere, though the witch who taught it managed to spice it up by creating fascinating illusions of historic events around the classroom. This was taught in one of the mountain’s exterior rooms, offering a huge view of the plains from the far wall. Charms was held in an entirely interior room by an elderly wizard dressed in eccentric red and purple robes and assisted by what Adam told me was a house-elf. Contrary to his wardrobe, he wasn’t the most fascinating teacher in the world, but I found the subject extremely intriguing—while Adam was bored out of his mind. He also didn’t seem to care much about the helping elf, while I kept wanting to ask her different questions about how her magic varied from ours. The afternoon held Transfiguration in a plateau-top building, which neither of us were particularly interested in, beyond my own fascination with performing any kind of magic. The day ended with No-Maj Studies, held next door to Transfiguration, and felt it was quite like learning basic math again, and I was amused but not surprised that Adam truly respected our friendship in this class! The next day brought Potions first thing. It was held in an interior classroom that was rather prone to becoming warm with all the fires, and unfortunately neither Adam nor I felt intrigued by it. We had even worse sentiments toward Herbology, which was held in a plateau-top building. I was beginning to wonder what Adam was interested in when we entered Defense Against the Dark Arts. Unsure how exactly to feel about this new passion of him, I decided to think the best of it, in hopes he could provide a good warrior should dark days come. The last new class of our week ended up being Astronomy, obviously held after sunset, and also obviously held in Wambleeska’s highest building atop the plateau.   
And so the school year went on. I maintained my best grades in Charms, often persuading Adam to stay after with me in order to help me master specific spells. In return, I’d stay behind with him to learn dark arts defense. In the middle of the semester we learned one that turned out to be my favorite of the whole year: fire! Adam was, without surprise, also quite excited about this one. The two of us spent the entire subsequent two practice sessions on this charm alone, thoroughly scorching several glass bowls and using a fair number of the reserved extinguishing bottles. I even tried messing a little with the spell, trying to hold my wand in different ways and pronouncing the incantation, Incendio, differently. This almost never resulted in more than pathetic sparks, thin smoke, or harmless combustions. But one specific combination of an increasing angle and forward motion led to flames that were noticeably larger and hotter. I tried for several minutes to reproduce the effect, but it would not.   
We both became good at our respective subjects, helping each other out, and struggling to remain afloat in Astronomy and Herbology. History, Potions, and Transfiguration were also difficult, but we retained enough to do well. In our spare time, we also watched the Sky team practice the sport I’d come to learn was Quidditch. Adam had tried out for the team—and so, I learned, had Kent—but neither made it due the upperclassmen’s huge experience gap. Yet we didn’t let this stop us: one evening when none of the Sects seemed to have the Quidditch Pitch reserved for practice, we made our way down to it and checked out two school brooms from the locker. Since both of us had a knack for flying practice, we were able to take off right away and soar high into the air. Even though the Pitch was at ground level, both of us made it higher than Wambleeska’s highest point within minutes, circling around each other for fun and then promptly branching out to drink in the incredible view. Patches of green and brown rolling plain went on for as far as I could see, broken innumerably with huge, majestic plateaus just like the one Wambleeska was built into. But then, as I crested over Wambleeska itself, I realized something I couldn’t have realized from the ground: the entire school was shaped like an eagle. I had always assumed it was the vaguely circular shape that all other plateaus held. We had arrived in the evening after it had been dark, so I couldn’t tell shape from the train. From the inside it was impossible; I had a hard enough time keeping track of where my classes were, let alone the exterior shape. I hadn’t had many excursions outside, mostly just with class fieldtrips, and none far enough to glimpse the school from afar. And in Flying class we never went this high. But there was a definite eagle shape: I could clearly made out the head, two spread wings, and a tail. I motioned to Adam, who was more focused on teaching himself dangerous spinning tricks, to look down. He did so and I saw him gape at the realization.   
Winter break came and I took the train back home, where my whole family was fascinated by the experiences I’d had, though I was devastated when my mom told me about the restriction on underage magic, which was strictly upheld by Congress of Conjurers. Instead, I channeled my deep interest into studying the incantations, writing them out and trying to understand what they meant. This helped immensely in the following semester as I realized I had been pronouncing some stuff wrong. I continued the practice through the next semester, writing down the different incantations and researching other ones in the library that were similar. Towards the end of the year, Adam and I were holding duels together… though we weren’t very good.   
“Flippendo!” Adam yelled, pointing his wand fiercely at me.   
It hit me square in the chest like an anvil and I felt my body go careening head-over-heels into the wall behind me. Attempting to react before he could relish his victory, I minutely adjusted the wand in my hand that was still pressed against the floor, so it aimed at the small chandelier above his head. “Diffindo!” I exclaimed, and the metallic snap echoed through the dorm.   
“Wingardium leviosa!” I heard him shriek, and the chandelier froze mid-descent. “You jerk! Reparo,” he muttered, but this wasn’t his top spell and the chandelier failed to reattach itself perfectly. Unaware of this, he shifted his wand and his attention to a position just above my head. “Alohomora,” he said, a hint of glee in his voice.   
I don’t even know why I tried pointing my wand at the cupboard and yelling “Colloportus,” but the Locking Charm either missed or didn’t work so quickly after its opposite had been uttered, and it cost me precious seconds in removing myself from the clutter of supplies that fell. I realized only as a large number of heavy books and boxes fell on top of me that I should have used the Levitating Charm on them, just as he had the chandelier. “Fumos,” I heard him say, and groaned as smoke poured from his wand tip to fill the room. But then something useful did occur to me. “Expelliarmus!” I yelled, and a telltale clatter on the ground told me his wand had indeed flown from his hand. Seizing the moment, I jumped up, ran at him, and yelled “Incendio!” Fireballs leapt from my wand and at his chest. Adam screamed as the balls engulfed him, mostly rolling over his shoulders and leaving a singed trail down his back, but a few caught on and began their own little infernos over his clothes before he managed to muster the presence of mind to pat himself down. All of a sudden, we heard a familiar metallic snap as the chandelier’s botched attachment chose this moment to give. Both of us yelped and jumped backwards as the piece fell to the floor, sending metal, wax, and glass all over the floor.   
“Spark if you’re okay,” Adam groaned, and I saw a shower of red sparks blossom and fade from across the room. I sent up green from my own. “Hey Josh.”   
“Hmm?” I leaned up to try and see him.   
“Mucus ad Nauseam.” A red jet lit the way from his wand to my face, and immediately my sinuses congested like a hot air balloon.   
“Jerp,” I muttered through what felt like a thick, swollen mouth.   
Moments later, Gordon Brown came bursting into our dorm followed by Mitchell Stevens, one of our roommates. “Stupefy!” Adam yelled, and a jet of red hit Gordon in the leg. The Prefect gasped and tumbled to the floor like a wooden statue, stunned.   
“Oh God,” Adam groaned. “Josh, you’re still on the ground, aren’t you?”   
“Guilty,” I said.   
Mitchell was laughing heartily. “Adam, you’re in heaps of trouble.” He looked around the smoke-filled and chandelier-littered room. “Both of you are. We can save ourselves a little by at least turning Brown in, maybe with a little bit of an altered memory. But not before you both tell me what happened!” 

A couple months into the second semester I approached the Charms wizard at the end of class. “Professor Ecclesiastes, could I get your approval to practice Charms at home? I would really like to.” The house-elf who assisted his class paused at the shelf she was attending and seemed to listen. The Professor wasn’t happy with the request, but he also didn’t give me a blunt, rude no, which I knew immediately was a positive sign. He had seen me after class nearly every day with Adam, even though the two of us often didn’t directly involve him in our practice. Occasionally he had given us advice on how to improve specific charms, and once he even let me stay in the classroom after he’d left.   
“And why should I do that?” His voice was as rough as the instruction he gave. “Even after that disruption you and your friend caused?”   
I didn’t even have to think about it. “Sir, I’m sorry about that. We both love to perform magic and we’re at each other’s level. I thought I could keep it contained.   
“And this is my favorite subject. I’m think I’m pretty good at it and I’d like to continue learning, even outside of class, and especially during summer. Maybe next semester you could give me lessons outside of class!”   
Professor was quiet for a moment. I didn’t look directly at his eyes, but I could see the gears moving behind those experienced, gray glassy orbs. He wanted to grant my request, I could feel it in his demeanor. I liked him as a professor and I strongly felt that he liked me as a student. But it was a tall request and he couldn’t let it pass simply for free. “My waistcoat is stiff from a long day and hurting my back. Please soften it.”   
Spongio. I cringed. We had spent a whole day on this charm and I had trouble getting it. Neither Adam nor I had chosen to practice it outside of class either; it was not an effect that we particular desired to produce again, fitting neither with my elemental and environmental preferences nor his fighting and competitive preferences. To make matters worse, I remembered all too vividly the harsh effect a misfired Softening Charm could produce: a singed hole, thoroughly crumpled and dried around the area. This could not be any better against skin. Taking a deep breath, I drew my wand and made my way slowly to Professor Ecclesiastes’ chest, his waistcoat exposed through his parted outer robe. “You can do it, Mr. Hatchlet,” the Professor said softly. “From what I’ve seen of you, you just need to want it.” I need to dream, I reminded myself. Let my mind soar, feel the wind in my feathers and let that become the spell at my fingertips. Spongio, I remembered again. With a soft ‘J’ sound and emphasis only on the ‘S.’ The wand held firmly and still in my gasp, already pointed, I exclaimed “Spongio!” and a short, quick jet of pink light shot into the Professor’s waistcoat. His face was serene through the whole process, but I had to fight to keep from clenching my eyes. No ashen blackness, no smell of smoke, and no grunt of pain from Professor Ecclesiastes, though I felt this was less likely. “Like fresh from the clothesline,” he said, as if confirming the wetness of water.   
He knew I could do it. I knew I could do it. And yet the relief was immense… more, I realized, from living up to my Professor’s expectations, than being able to practice magic at home. “Pofus will be checking up on you periodically at your home, to confirm you aren’t taking advantage of my generosity.” This was expected. Pofus, his house-elf, had been there watching me every time. She was a sweet little elf, motherly and quite the opposite of the Professor’s rigid and abrasive personality. I was completely okay with this, especially since I was fond of her and she seemed to be of me, too. “Assuming, of course, that the Congress doesn’t bar my permission. And, of course, that you still hold your request?”   
My eyes widened. Knowing I’d passed was one thing, but hearing it spoken from one of authority was different—better. “Yes, sir! Yes I do! Thank you, sir! Thank you so much!”   
He nodded passively. “The owl will address your mother and father with the Congress’ approval. You may expect it when you arrive at home. Good day, Mr. Hatchlet.”   
“Good day, sir!”   
“And Mr. Hatchlet?” I turned around. “Thank you.”   
I hadn’t expected this and my mind went blank for a moment. “Um, sure… I mean, what for, sir?”   
“I’ll let you figure that one out for yourself.” He returned to his tasks in the classroom, rebuttoning his robe. 

“He said you could do what?”   
Adam was shocked, impressed, and more than anything, jealous. “Dude, not fair! I want to do magic at home!”   
“Then by all means, go ask a professor,” I said. “That’s all I did. I had a reason though, and, I guess, a good reputation?”   
“A reason and a reputation,” Adam repeated, unconvinced. I nodded. “I think it’s just cause he likes you.”   
I shrugged. “Possibly. But I doubt it. There seemed to be more than that. I think I earned it, Adam.” He was still annoyed, but I could tell he didn’t argue cause he understood what I meant, however reluctantly. Saying goodbye to our roommates for the summer, especially Mitchell for putting up with our shenanigans with a good attitude, we left the dorm and made our way to the Sky Commons lower in the tower. Meeting Kent there, we descended to the Wambleeska Great Hall where all the students were soon gathered to hear the Headmistress’ closing address in which she thanked us all for a pleasant year and presented the scores: Earth had won the Sect Cup, much to Ether’s despair. Ocean had come in second, us third, and the Ethers were last. I didn’t much care about the celebration as the Great Hall was swept, as if by wind, with green followed by accents of red, purple, and black. Beside me, both Adam and Kent were reveling in the momentary festivity, clearly put off that our Sect had come in next to last, especially since Earths were before us.   
“Next year,” I heard Adam tell Kent, “This is going to be different. I’m going to practice Quidditch all summer and make the team. We’re going to beat Earth, and we’re going to come in first.” Kent enthusiastically agreed, firing off several ideas—most of which I didn’t particularly want involvement in—that could get Sky ahead. 

Soon, the topic was forgotten as we made our way back to the Wambleeska Express. Looking back towards the school as I stepped toward the train with Adam and Kent, I could clearly see the upper surface of what I knew was the eagle’s left wing, and I mentally retraced Adam’s and my flight path with fond memory. Finally the three of us boarded the train, and the image of my sister on the other side of the Amtrak station was the most welcome thing I’d seen all year. A sensation of warmth rushed over me again:   
I was home. 

 

~~~

 

Present Day   
My wife beside me, Etik clutched around my forearm in my sleeve, and my wand in my coat were thrice reassuring against the morbid atmosphere of the city morgue near midnight. The four of us – Professor Ecclesiastes and Pofus graciously accompanied – ascended the cold, sleek marble stairs in silence, having discussed our knowledge of the matter on the way over. Apparently this wasn’t the first of recent crimes that had held relevance to me. Although the Professor hadn’t been appropriately certified to explain the situation himself, he had prodded the official in charge to fill me in. I had lost a wand several weeks ago, nearing on a month now, which I knew was under investigation but had heard no leads. I had created it from the purest, most potent ingredients I had heard of in conjunction with my ever-wiser mentor and unfortunately now recent victim, Mr. Evercare, as well as several other international reputed wandmakers who I had the pleasure of sharing notes and a few key ingredients with. The wand we created was rumored to be nearly as potent as the legendary Elder Wand, one of the mythical Deathly Hallows, which was said to have been used by such historical figures as Headmaster Dumbledore, Dark Lord Voldemort, and the famous Auror Potter who had defeated him. It awed me that my creation could be compared to such. And, according to the Congress Official leading us now, it awed the suspect enough to steal it. I supposed I should have seen a theft coming, but quite honestly I’d never actually expected the wand to be used. Its creation was more a project for the study of theory and affectivity; not for practical usage.   
“You may wish to remain behind, Mrs. Hatchlet,” the the Congress Official Coroner, Mr. Klutch, told my wife.   
“I appreciate your concern,” Sarah said, “But I’m happy to accompany.”   
Nodding lightly, Mr. Klutch led three of us—Pofus did stay behind—into the examination room where he asked us not to touch but merely observe. There were two technicians already in the room working around the body, who we quickly saw was a young boy. His body was sadly damaged, from bloody cuts and bruises to many other magical injuries, including several that changed dynamically before our eyes.   
“A No-Maj child,” he explained as the technicians continued their work. “Sadly defaced. The extent and reason for the damage is still unknown, but we believe it was done by your wand. We’re still working on removing enchantments so the body may be returned to his No-Maj family.” He went on to point out scarring around his lips that seemed to be reminiscent of a Growing Potion forcefully fed, and skin hardening all over his body due to manifestation of protective magic. More obvious was the hair changing from blond to blue before our eyes, the pupils glowing, parts of his body fading to invisibility and back, and the sudden levitation of his body a foot off the table that nearly gave me a heart attack. I was unable to recognize any of it but Mr. Klutch said they were all remnants of powerful spells cast on his body—and, gruesomely, into his flesh as if the wand were a syringe.   
“And you think his wand did that?” Sarah asked as the Coroner led us back out and Pofus rejoined us.   
“Yes,” Mr. Klutch answered. “We don’t recognize the magical signature from any wands we have registered for use in the state—which certainly hasn’t helped us narrow down the suspect.”   
“But you do recognize a signature,” the Professor confirmed.   
“Indeed. More like a tier of power, if you will. Just like how you can recognize a young wizard’s Stunning Spell from an accomplished scholar’s Patronus—the simple level of skill required is distinguishable. Similarly, you can tell tiers of wand power. People are most often familiar with children’s toy wands versus a real one. Mr. Hatchlet, I’m sure you’re more capable in this area.”   
I obliged. “Children’s wands are often made of more simple ingredients like kneazle whiskers. They are less picky about who their masters are, even to the point of having more than one—convenient for young siblings. But they are very limited to the spells they can produce: Like you said, Mr. Klutch, probably only simple charms, defenses, and curses. Whereas an adult’s wand is made of more potent—yet still common—ingredients like heartstring or feathers, which are capable of producing any spell its user can learn. Similarly, one of the first things I learned about the stolen wand—I called it the Sonic Wand, don’t ask—is that its ability to produce more advanced spells was significant. It was actually kind of scary… when I held it for the first time, it almost seemed to want to cast a spell for me; it felt eager to show me what it could do. With most wands, you kind of ask it to produce a spell. With Sonic, it was like giving it permission.”   
“And that permissive signature is pretty easy to pick up on,” Mr. Klutch continued. “It leaves a different magical impression on the target than many other wands, one that I bet the suspect didn’t, well, suspect. It was a nice clue for the investigators to get quickly, and it’s also what gave us the idea to ask you, Mr. Hatchlet. Beyond your connection to Mr. Evercare.”   
“Any leads on the Mister?” Pofus asked.   
“Sadly, not yet,” Mr. Klutch said. “But we have reason to believe he’s not dead, at the very least. If we’re right in that the same person who killed that No-Maj boy, stole your wand, then it means he’s not clean with his work. He’s not methodical, at least not obviously. He probably needs information, especially on such a powerful and dangerous wand. I think he wants Mr. Evercare alive for instruction.” 

~~~

Wambleeska Year 2:   
Coming Next


End file.
